"The very thing, of all others, that I most wished for," had been Mr. Godfrey's self-gratulation, some time before, when he discovered Robert and Rebecca had made up their minds to be man and wife some day: "I hoped it might be so, for Rebecca is a good girl, and a clever one, and will keep the business together; she is gentle and loving too; Robert might, to be sure, have got a girl with a little fortune; but then, 'tis as broad as 'tis long, for somebody else would have been sure to want Rebecca, and I should have given her something, as in duty bound after bringing her up, and left her something in my will; and now, there will be no cutting and contriving, but 'twill all keep together and go together. No, there couldn't be a better thing, though I have never hinted at it-not once. And so, thenceforth, Robert Godfrey and Rebecca Kennet, quietly and quite as a matter of course, when the novelty of the thing was over, and without any violent and fiery courtship, but a good deal of pleasant confidence, and in a sensible sort of way, plighted their troth, and, waiting only a convenient season, were looked upon as being-to quote the words of the old women in red cloaksas good as married already." And they walked together to the house of God, and took long evening walks besides; and if sometimes Robert did start off upon a ramble, tired of standing behind the counter, when his father thought he might as well be at home, he never calculated on a pout or a frown or a curious question from his fair cousin on his return.

They were to be married, and the very day was appointed. It wanted only three months to the time; and, to clear off old visiting scores, Rebecca accepted an invitation to spend a week or two with some friends of her uncle in a town at some distance from her home. The visit was paid, and on her return Rebecca was accompanied by one of the young ladies of the family, who volunteered her services in making due preparations for the approaching wedding.

"Boast not thyself of to-morrow." How often, and, alas! with how little effect, has this caution to be repeated and reiterated! Before the intervening time had expired, a fever broke out in the village, and among its earliest sufferers was our friend Rebecca; and the injudicious treatment of the disease by an ignorant and conceited practitioner added to the violence of the attack. The whole household was in consternation. The old shopkeeper was half beside himself, and sent off an express for another medical man; Robert was down-stricken with the sudden blow; and Miss E., the young friend, terrified at the idea that the fever was infectious, hastily decamped, and left poor Rebecca to her fate. Of course, there was no more said about the wedding at that time; for when the day arrived, the bride-elect was dangerously ill. The fever was abated, but its effects remained, or, rather, as her uncle affirmed, she was "ill of the doctor." Time and nursing, however, brought back the bloom to her cheek, and strength to her emaciated frame; but months Lad elapsed before Rebecca had the courage to look out her half-made bridal dresses, and to set to work upon them afresh. And, meanwhile, a new cause for anxiety had arisen. Young Godfrey had lost his former vivacity, had become restless

and melancholy. There was nothing the matter with him, he said impatiently, when questioned; and the doctor said so too, except that care and constant fretting had affected his nerves. This was natural enough, and seemed to prove the strength of his affection for his cousin. And yet, it was observable that her evident restoration to health brought with it no improvement in his spirits; he became more moody in his temper, and wan in countenance, and, at length, declaring that he must have a change of air and scene, and pleading an old invitation from the E.'s, he started one fine morning on the London coach, which passed through their town.

In

Good-by, Rebecca; I shan't keep away! from you long, my pretty one, and then another minute the coach had rattled off, and Rebecca returned to her morning occupations. "And then"-she whispered to herself; "and then!" And if there were a gentle blush on her cheek, and a little additional sparkling in her bright eyes, we need not too curiously explain the reason why.

"Isn't it very odd, Rebecca, that Robert does not write a little oftener? Here, he has been gone a month, and only two or three shabby bits of notes from him. I can't think what he is shilly-shallying about. If I were you, girl, I should begin to be jealous."

"I don't know how, uncle," replied Rebecca, with a smile; "but I think too that Robert might find time to write a little oftener. He says he is a good deal better, though, and so we must not mind a little neglect, poor fellow; I dare say he is enjoying the change. I hope so, I am sure."

"

Does he say anything about returning in his last note to you, Rebecca? There was nothing about it in mine, you know."

66

Soon, he says, uncle-soon. 'I shall soon see you again,' he says, and so I need not trouble you with a long letter.'

333

"Um! Well, I wish he would come soon, that is, as soon as he feels himself strong enough to get to work again. And you know, Rebecca, the sooner this wedding is over the better. I should like you to be married before our busy time comes on, and have it well over, so as not to have any hindrances that way. Don't you think so, Rebecca ?"

"It would be as well, uncle," said she, quietly. "And all your finery-is that ready? or shall we send for Louisa to come and help you again? A pretty sort of a friend she is, to run away as she did, and leave you so ill as you were."

"It wasn't very kind, certainly, uncle; but, poor thing, she was sadly afraid of catching the fever, you know. But I shall do without her this time. Yes, uncle, all my finery, as you call it, is pretty nearly ready."

66

'Rebecca," said Mr. Godfrey, turning suddenly upon her, and kissing her very paternally, "you are the most sensible girl I ever met with. Now, ninety-nine girls out of a hundred would have pretended to be terribly shocked to have such ques tions put to them by an old fellow like me; and would have turned as red as poppies, and made some fine-lady lackadaisical speech; and you take it as quietly as if it was only about making a pudding."

frey had trampled on the claims of honour and conscience, and turned a deaf ear to their remonstrances, and carried on a treacherous and concealed correspondence, which ended in a secret and hurried marriage with Louisa E. In the long letter which he wrote to his father, there was a great deal about the impossibility of giving his hand where it could not be accompanied with his heart; and how he had been deceived in thinking that the sentiments of respect and affection he had nourished and still felt for his cousin, were those of genuine love; and how sorry he was he should have misled his cousin, but how he really could not help it-it was the fault of circumstances, and no fault of his own; and how much worse it would have been for him to have made the important discovery of his mistake after marriage; and how he hoped Rebecca would not take it to heart, but would rather rejoice that she had escaped being united to one who found he had no warmer feeling towards her than that of friendship; and how he hoped his father and his cousin would forgive him, and that they should be happy hereafter in the new turn of events; and how his beloved Louisa regretted, and so forth; and how he left it with his father to say whether he and his lovely wife should return to, or, if that, at present, would not be agreeable, to help to set him up in business elsewhere; and how his dear Louisa had a little money of her own-a few hundred pounds, which she had generously placed at his entire disposal; and how he expected his father would write to him in a few days to say that he was not very angry, and that his cousin was very resigned; and how he hoped and was sure she would meet with some one more worthy of her love than he ever could have been, and so forth. But enough of this trash, which was accompanied by a note from the father of Robert's bride, who declared that he had been no party to the transaction; that the marriage came upon him like a thunder-clap, for he hadn't the slightest idea that anything of the sort was going on till it was all over, Robert and his daughter having managed their affairs with such secrecy; that he was very angry indeed about it, but that what was done could not be undone, and that the wisest plan was to make the best of a bad bargain; that his daughter and her husband were then at his house, for he couldn't turn them out of doors, but that, as they were not distressed for money, he supposed they would fix on some plan soon, but that they were waiting Mr. Godfrey's commands; and that he hoped his old friend would exonerate him from all blame, and would forgive the young people their rashness and duplicity and stratagems; "for, after all," said Mr. E., "it might have been worse, and you know, friend Godfrey, we cannot put old heads on young shoulders."

Yes, the news soon spread far and wide that wretched day; and that the old shopkeeper had been found in a fit with the open letter in his hand; and that Miss Rebecca, when she came to know the rights and the wrongs of it, had to be taken to her chamber, as pale as a corpse, and that there she was still, and would not see a single person, except her uncle. And there were great cryings out of "Shame! shame!" for Rebecca was a favourite with the old and the young; and if she had not been, they would that day have cried out

"Shame!" And it was a bustling, busy day for Mr. Peacock the cordwainer, who had his version of the story to tell fifty times, out of the Crown, and in the Crown, till he got so gloriously elated at last, that he lost the power of speech; and there was more beer drunk that day at the Crown than there had been since the last feast day.

But night came at last; and then another distressful day; and then, as night came round again, Mr. Godfrey and his niece met in their little sitting-room-he, broken down in spirit, and looking older by months and years than he had looked forty-eight hours before; and she, gentle as ever, and tearless, and thoughtless of herself, intent only on softening the cruel blow which had fallen on her uncle, but pale nevertheless, from the conflict she had maintained with her heart. A cursory observer would have said, "Poor girl, she has suffered dreadfully, but she will soon get over it." A closer and keener would have replied, "No, never!" Each would have been right, and each wrong.

The conversation of Rebecca and her uncle was carried on in low and broken tones; but we may disclose its import.

"I tell you, no, no, Rebecca; I won't forgive him, so there's no use in saying any more about it. You are a kind and good girl, as you always were; but I wonder how you can have a word to say for such a

"Uncle, dear uncle! don't."

'Well, for your sake, I won't call names; and the best thing we can both do is to forget him altogether."

"Let us forget his fault, uncle, but not him."

"He shan't come near the house again; I'll let him know that; and as to his clothes and rattletraps, I'll pack up every rag, and stick, and straw, the first thing to-morrow, and send them off; but don't let him show his face here, that's all."

"But, uncle, hear, pray do hear me." "I had rather you wouldn't say any more, Rebecca, about Robert, unless you could make up your mind to abuse him as heartily as I do. My poor girl, I cannot bear to see your pale, sad face, and hear your meek, gentle words, and to know that your heart is near upon breaking all the while. And to think that the false-hearted one who has worked all this mischief is a son of mine-my only son! No, I'll never forgive him!" And Mr. Godfrey struck the table with his broad hand so violently, to give effect to his bitter words, and still more bitter wrath, that Rebecca started nervously, and uttered a faint involuntary cry.

"I beg your pardon, Rebecca, I did not mean to startle you, poor girl; but I don't know how to contain myself. To think of his deceit, and that girl's too!"

"Dear uncle, don't let us say any more about it to-night," said Rebecca, imploringly; "this is so sudden, so unexpected by us both, you know, that we are not aware of what we are saying: we shall be better able to speak of it in a few days. And, uncle, don't make any harsh and hasty vows; you know you are sometimes apt to be hasty. Poor Robert!" and the stricken one could bear no more: tears, blessed tears, came to her relief at last; and hastily bidding her uncle "good night," she retired to her chamber. But not to sleep.

WHAT IS SAND?

THE question as to the origin of those vast accumulations of sand, so white and pure, which render the beaches of our island-home so beautiful to the eye and pleasant to the feet, has no doubt perplexed the minds of many of those who have recently returned from a sea-side sojourn or a coast ramble, and led to many guessings on the subject, more or less in accordance with scientific truth. To the young especially, the clear, smooth, cool belt of powdered crystal that fringes the land, and along which the crested waves are ever playing night and day, is an object of unceasing wonder, amusement, and delight. And many, in all probability, are the ingenious speculations that have been hazarded by these little sand-excavators and shell-hunters, if we could but learn them, to account for the origin and perpetuation of these charming sea-walks. All who are interested in such an inquiry will read with pleasure the following simple and lucid explanation of the matter, Popular Physical Geology,* designed expressly for those who are unacquainted with this growingly important science. This is, in many respects, just such a work as we had been long looking for. It thoroughly grounds the amateur student in the first rudiments of geological knowledge, and employs no technical terms which have not been previously explained. The only desideratum in the work is some reference to the connexion between geology and scripture; but the day may be said to be past for any difficulty to be felt by really well-informed parties on this question. The word of God and all true science will ever harmonize. The descriptions of the writer are materially aided by the pictorial skill of the artist, the work containing not fewer than twenty tinted litho graphic illustrations of geological formations, chiefly taken from Ireland. The transparency of the author's style will be best appreciated after perusing the extract which we subjoin, on the various divinely-ordained agencies which are at all times actively employed in the formation of sand and gravel.

which we extract from an admirable work on

"If the reader will examine a handful of sand by the aid of a lens, he will find that it is composed of grains, or minute, irregularly-shaped particles of a hard, shining, often semi-transparent substance. These particles are, if not round, very much rounded, often having on the surface a rubbed appearance, as if they had been worn and ground against each other. As to river or sea sand, it is obvious that this rubbing must actually have taken place, because, as the moving water must frequently wash the sand about and roll it onwards in its course, the particles must be constantly exposed to friction against each other, or against whatever substance it may be that lies at the bottom of the water. It is clearly possible, therefore, that all river or sea sand may have been produced, or brought into the state of sand, by the action of the running or moving waters tearing away fragments of rock, breaking them up into constantly diminishing particles, and, by perpetual friction and rolling, grinding those particles into

*"Popular Physical Geology." By J. Beete Jukes. M.A., F.E.S., M.R.I.A., &c. &c. London: Reeve & Co. 1853.

"It is, however, by no means necessary to suppose that the water always detached the sand directly from the rock as sand, that is, in small grains. On the contrary, if we examine the action of moving water now, whether we go to the rapids and cataracts of rivers, or to the breakers of the sea battering against a rocky coast, we shall everywhere see large blocks of rock lying about, often but newly detached from their original site, with all their angles sharp and the fractures fresh, the yet unhealed scar perhaps plainly visible in the cliff above. We should see also blocks having every gradation of form, from this newly-broken angular fragment to smaller and smoother wellrounded boulders and pebbles, having every projecting angle ground off and all the surface worn as smooth as a billiard-ball. This has been effected by the frequent moving and rolling of all these blocks one against the other on the pebble-beach or in the bed of the torrent, every roll removing some little corner, chipping off some little projection, each separated fragment being itself shortly smoothed and rolled into a pebble or shingle, and all the waste of this process being carried off by the moving water in the shape of sand. Thus we come to look upon not only all sand as a waterworn material, but also upon every pebble and whether found in river, lake, or ocean, if it has at detached stone, of whatever shape and size, all a worn and rounded outline, as having probably acquired that outline by the action of moving water, and as having been probably transported by that action from its parent site to the place where

every

we now find it.

"There are two mineral substances which enter more largely into the structure of all rocks than any other: these are silica and alumina. The most common form of silica is quartz, which is almost entirely pure silica. Rock-crystal is a common it is quite transparent; it, however, is often found name for quartz in its crystalline form: in this state in veins in the hard rocks as an opaque milk-white stone, very hard and brittle. When quartz is ture of other substances, it is called flint. All coloured dull white or brown by the slight admixnon-crystallized quartz, and most rocks that are made of it, when broken by the hammer or in any other way, commonly split into squarish or cubical lumps, which, when acted on by moving water, rolled or moved, either as large pebbles or as small soon get their corners rounded off so as to be easily round grains. It is partly for this reason, and partly on account of their superior hardness and that the great majority of all pebbles and sand unyieldingness to chemical or mechanical force, consist of quartz. If we re-examine with a lens our handful of sea-sand, we should find all the and most of the opaque ones, to be made of quartz, little glassy-looking or semi-transparent grains, mingled perhaps with grains of a few other substances, and, in the case of sea-sand, with grains of broken shell or coral, or other sea creatures."